His Devil's Mercy (Club Devil's Cove Book 4)

by Linzi Basset

  There had to be something else on the line that he didn’t know about. He just prayed it wouldn’t cost their lives in the process.

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, Jarry but from—”

  “Jarrah. My name is Jarrah Farooq,” Joanne barked irritably. She wished Max would just shut up and stop goading them.

  “Jerry, Jarry, Jarrah . . . all sound the same to me,” Max responded. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, from what I’ve seen, you’re the only one with balls in this jeep—considering that you’ve almost cracked mine.” He snorted loudly. “I don’t think either of these two bozos have the guts to take me on; even tied up as I am.”

  Hamal had had enough and turned around between the seats. He aimed a fist at Max’s head, which he easily avoided. He swung his body forward with a twist of his waist and slammed his head into Hamal’s temple. He slumped between the seats with an “umph”—and was out cold.

  “What the fuck—” Akil’s surprised cry was cut short as he too fell victim to Max’s hard head connecting with his forehead.

  “Jesus, Max! Are you fucking crazy?” Joanne shrieked as she slammed on the brakes. She twisted in the seat and glowered at him.

  “Take off those shades, Jo,” Max ordered. He felt a rush of elation when she instinctively reached up to do his bidding. She cursed softly when she realized what she was doing. “Ah, there’s my baby,” he cooed.

  As always, he was entranced by her long, sweeping eyelashes; like a brush of black paint against the perfect canvas of her face, shadowing the dark amethyst glimmer of her irises. They fluttered as she blinked, her gaze turned as cold as the winter snow.

  “Number one, I’m not your anything, Maximilian Bartolomeus Shaw, least of all, your baby! Secondly—”

  “I beg to differ. See, we—”

  “Differ all the way to hell for all I care! Secondly, you are screwing up everything with your desire to control, as always! Can’t you, just for once—just fucking once—trust me and go along?”

  “Sure, baby,” he said congenially. “As long as I know what the fuck it is you’re doing. You got me here to bring you back home and instead of allowing me to do that, you kick me in the balls! Doesn’t add up, baby.”

  “Stop calling me baby,” Joanne gritted through clenched teeth. “And just shut up for a second. I need to think.”

  “Think later. For now, tell me why we’re on the way back into the hornet’s nest.”

  “There are other women we need to rescue.”

  Max stared at her. She didn’t blink, just returned his gaze.

  “How the hell do you think we’ll do that, and not get caught, Joanne? You, I might get out safely and without being detected but . . .?” His gaze sharpened. “Just how many are we talking?”

  “Twelve.”

  Joanne winced as Max erupted in a curse.

  “Max, I need to knock you out before they come too. It’s the only way we can get you into the compound without raising their suspicion.”

  “You’re not fucking knocking me out. I’m not going to be left defenseless while who the fuck knows what is waiting for me. You told these fucktards that I’m a spy, Joanne. What do you think they’re gonna do to me? Kiss my fucking feet?”

  “You don’t have to curse so much, Max. And stop glaring at me. This is all your fault.”

  “My fault? How the—ugh!” Max grunted and slumped into a dead faint as she unexpectedly jabbed the handle of the gun against his temple.

  “Yes, your fault and all because you always have to be such a . . . a DOM!”

  Giving the passed-out man a final searing glare, she jammed the sunglasses back in place, kicked the jeep into gear and pulled away. Just a few minutes before Halam and Akil woke up.

  “Let that be a lesson. Don’t fuck with an American Black Ops spy. They’re not scared to get hurt,” she snapped briefly.

  They were obviously disgruntled that Jarrah, the smallest among the sheikh’s guard, had managed to put the American in place.

  “Just wait until we have him in the stocks. I’m going to break every one of his white teeth!” Hamal growled. He patted the lump on his head. “He’s gonna wish he never did this.”

  Joanne didn’t respond. She was too busy trying to strategize how to keep Max from getting killed.

  Fuck! If only I had a prior warning. Now, we have no plan. Brilliant, Joanne!

  The end was in sight; of her harrowing experience and the life of disguise she’d been forced to live for almost a year. She shivered at the thought of what lay in store for Max if she failed to find a way out of this muck.

  Chapter Three

  “Wake up, American bastard!”

  The guttural growl was followed by a bucket of ice cold water thrown into Max’s face. The water was cold against his hot skin causing a shudder of pleasure to run down his spine at the contact. Once the shock of it wore off, he’d smile—just to irritate his tormentors a little more. He’d been awake for the past five minutes but hadn’t moved, silently measuring the surroundings and listening. The slight breeze on his wet clothes was the finest way to cool him down. The heat, combined with the dry desert air was oppressing. The icy water was like an antidote to the high August heat.

  “Wake up!” Hamal shouted again.

  Max lazily opened one eyelid. His face lit up and his teeth flashed white in the sun. He squinted at the man in front of him and his smile broadened at the obvious irritation his reaction caused. “Miss me, buddy?”

  Crack!

  Hamal took a step back, his eyes widening when Max’s head didn’t snap backward from the hard fist he’d just planted on his chin.

  “Yep, just as I said, no balls. C’mon, buddy. Wanna give it another shot? A mosquito stings harder than that back home,” Max taunted him.

  “Stand in front of our leader!” Hamal growled and yanked him upright.

  “You've got a big mouth, American. We’ll soon hear how you scream like a baby when we take the whip to you.”

  Max turned his face and found the owner of the, now familiar, slightly throaty voice. Joanne stood next to a chubby man of medium height, dressed in traditional Arabic wear, a white thwab, with a serwal, or pajama pants, underneath. He also sported a similar black and white keffiyeh like the rest of the people surrounding him. During his research, Max had found out that the color and pattern of the headgear was generally unique to a specific tribe of the regions.

  “And who’s gonna whip me? You?” Max snorted and looked Joanne up and down. “With those puny muscles of yours? Gmphf, I’ll probably laugh myself into a coma.”

  “I advise you to keep your trap shut, American. You’re digging your own grave,” Joanne sneered.

  Max wasn’t fazed by the situation; instead, he appeared to enjoy goading everyone.

  She walked around him and kicked him hard on his butt. He stumbled forward, not because of the strength of the kick but because he didn’t want her to lose face in front of the mighty sheikh. “Walk, American,” she ordered grimly, well aware what Max was doing

  He smirked at her over his shoulder but shuffled closer to the sheikh. The cluster of women staring outside through the cell windows to the enclosure, oohed and aahed. He flashed a wide grin in their direction, all the while looking around sharply, trying to formulate an escape plan.

  “Come over here, stud. We’ll protect you.” A tall redhead cooed at him. Max correctly assumed that they were sex slaves who had accepted their fate and made the best of their situation.

  “Will be right over, honey. Just give me a moment,” Max shouted back.

  “I said, walk!” Joanne barked.

  “Still jealous, baby?” Max teased quietly under his breath.

  “Jealous my ass. You’re welcome to all of them. See if I care,” she sneered for his ears only.

  “Just remember, Jo. Every bit of pain I suffer, I will take out of your hide once we’re back home,” Max growled.

  “Stop complaining and figure out ho
w to get us out of here. If he puts you in the dugout, you’re dead,” she whispered furiously. “On your knees, bastard spy,” she spat when they reached Sheikh Juhayman.

  Max didn’t have to ask what a dugout was. It was one of the punishments the tribes dished out to traitors and spies. The person would be tied to a pole in the center of a large hole in the ground with his mouth gagged and his eyelids stretched open with tape. The hole would then slowly be filled with water that could take days. Some died from dehydration before the water even reached their waist, others were offered lenience if they indicated their desire to talk.

  Max towered over the sheikh and looked him over with a derisive twist to his mouth.

  “Why? Do I make him feel like a dwarf?”

  Joanne hissed angrily into his ear, “Don’t provoke him, Maximilian!”

  Max spared an amused look over his shoulder at her and winked.

  “On your knees!” Sheikh Juhayman ordered. His jaw trembled at Max’s insolence.

  “Wanna try and make me?”

  “You defy me? Look around you, American. You’re in my turf. All I have to do is snap my fingers and you’ll be dead.”

  “Maybe, but then you won’t get what you want from me. So, let’s dance, Sheikh Juhayman. I don’t have the whole day to dally. I’ve got things to do; places to go.”

  Max ignored the groan from behind him. His gaze was glued to the beady eyes of the man in front of him, prepared to dive, should he or one of the guards reach for a knife, or god forbid, a gun. The soft whir of the chopper sounded in the earpiece and knew that Rhone was close by. If he had any inkling that Max was facing death, he’d be there, all guns and cannons blazing.

  “Fuck, Max, put a lid on it. You could be dead before we make a move if you carry on like that,” Rhone warned gravely in his ear.

  Sheikh Juhayman was taken aback by the direct challenge in Max’s eyes. He retreated a step.

  “It would be easy to kill you, American but I need to know which tribe is trying to infiltrate my ranks. I stand to become an advisor to the new king and no one is going to stop me; definitely not someone who has no business being in my country.” He turned and started walking. He looked at Joanne. “Take him to the courtyard, Jarrah, and tie him to the cross. Let’s see how many jokes he makes while the sun beats down on him. No water and no food. I’ll give you until noon tomorrow, American, then you will bow to me and tell me what I want to know . . . or you will suffer the consequences.” His cackle of enjoyment echoed in the enclosed compound. “And make sure the dogs guard him.”

  This time there was no mistaking the curse from the woman behind him.

  “I guess he's not referring to a couple of Jack Russells?” Max asked her. He pretended to stumble as she shoved him in the direction of the large wooden cross in the center of the courtyard.

  “It’s not fucking funny, Max. Why do you always have to . . . walk American!” she growled when Akil and Hamal approached them.

  “Anymore snarky remarks, American?” Hamal taunted Max minutes later as he pulled the rope tight around his ankles.

  “Snarky? My, my. Are you sure you’re not the spy, Hammy? You sound very westernized to me,” Max quipped.

  Crack!

  Hamal responded with a hard punch across Max’s face. Sharp pain lanced through his head. Colorful spots flashed in front of his eyes as his head slammed into the steel brace of the wooden cross. He tasted the metallic taste of the blood from the tear in his lip.

  “Fucking hit me one more time, Hammy, and I will slit your throat once I’m loose.” Max spat out the blood. It splattered over Hamal’s white Puma sneakers. He yelled and jumped back, then charged closer. “I suggest you guard your back, Hammy, because tonight, I will come for you.”

  “Enough!” Joanne barked, stepping between the two men. “Go and fetch the dogs, Hamal. Move, now!”

  Max was impressed with how assertive she looked. Hamal pivoted and stomped away.

  “Is he tied properly, Akil?” She asked and walked around Max, inspecting the ropes.

  “Yeah. As tight as a pig about to be slaughtered.”

  “Good.” She stepped in front of Max and glowered at him. “Go and see what is keeping Hamal. I’m fucking hungry,” she ordered without removing her eyes from him.

  Max exhaled, tentatively touching the cut in his lip with his tongue. It didn’t feel too bad and the bleeding had stopped. The way Joanne was staring at him made him wonder if she was debating to electrocute him or fuck him. The thought of electricity brought a memory of her writhing under his masterful violet wand to her skin.

  “You are such a dickhead; do you know that? Don’t you get it, Maximilian? We can’t sweet talk or buy our way out of this. We could be killed,” she said through thin lips.

  “Yep, Jo has always been quite sharp. I have to agree with her on that one,” Bruce’s deep voice grated in Max’s ear.

  Max shrugged with a terse smile—the only one he could produce, courtesy of the cut in his lip.

  “Ah well, in the words of Bob Marley, ‘Life is worth much more than gold . . . neither can be bought or sold’ so, never fear when Max is near, baby. I’ll get us out of here.”

  “Oh, really?” she yanked at the ropes wrapped around his waist that bound his hands behind him. “And just how do you propose to do that?”

  He winced as the ropes grazed at his wrists. He realized they were tight enough to chafe his wrists raw, should he struggle. He spat as the ropes dug further into his flesh.

  Joanne snorted when she noticed his grimace. She walked around him and within seconds, he felt the ropes loosening around his wrists.

  “That’s the best I can do without anyone noticing anything amiss. You’ll have enough time to wriggle lose but make sure you wait until everyone goes inside for the late afternoon qailulah. I can’t get back out here until everyone is asleep.”

  Qailulah was the equivalent to a siesta. Due to the punishing sun in the desert, people preferred to start their day after dark. Most people ate a late lunch around four in the afternoon and then had dinner around midnight. After that they generally relaxed and digested their food. Only then would they go to sleep.

  “Why not? Are you the Skeikh’s lover?”

  “Don’t be crude, Max. Why do you think I wear this fucking disguise?”

  Max’s eyes moved over her body and returned to gaze at her chest.

  “Hm, you’ve got a point, baby. Tell me, my pet, how do you manage to keep your tits from bobbing all over the place? As far as I can remember you were a hefty C-cup.”

  Joanne felt her cheeks suffuse with color. She cursed the memory that sprang to mind, of Max sucking and licking her full breasts. He used to love watching her reach a nipple climax. Her loins tightened as their eyes caught.

  Gone was the teasing glint in his eyes. It was replaced with an intensity that gave, as much as it demanded. Unwavering, Joanne stared back, wanting to draw him closer—even if only in her mind. There was something in his gaze—like he wanted to build a bridge over the past hurts. She didn’t blink. It was a moment she captured to memory.

  “Bind—I bind them with cloth,” she stammered finally.

  Her husky voice broke the tenuous thread between them. Max blinked and gazed at her breasts.

  “Now, that’s just plain cruel, baby. Remind me to reward them with a massage, for the torture they’ve been subjected to, when we’re back home.” A movement behind Joanne caught his attention. “Fuck me. Those aren’t dogs, they’re fucking wolves!”

  “You think?” Joanne lilted.

  Max cringed at the memory of fighting a couple of wolves years ago, when he’d been hiking in the Himalayas with Quinlan, his cousin. He watched them moving closer—in choreographed motions, a family of canine dancers.

  The bigger one of the two had a silver coat. His fur, short over his body and longer at the neck, was smooth and shiny. He prowled closer, his stance was confident and his body strong and muscular. He lifted his nose
and sniffed in Max’s direction. Max remained still and returned the animal’s chilling stare. There was intelligence in their eyes, but Max had a suspicion their natural spirit had been broken in captivity.

  “No witty remarks, American?” Hamal sneered as he chained the three wolves to the pole. They circled him, growling softly, before they sat down, staring at him.

  “I have the touch, Hammy. Before the sun sets, I’ll be their best buddy.”

  Hamal stormed closer only to be checked by Joanne who stopped him with a combat knife to his throat.

  “Get inside. If you can’t control your temper, you don’t belong in my guard. This is your final warning, Hamal.” Her voice cut the air with promised intent which Hamal recognized. He tossed his head angrily but stomped toward the guards’ mess.

  “Should’ve done that long ago,” Akil grumbled but followed Hamal in case he might get caught in the crossfire.

  “On my guard? You’re in charge of the Sheikh Juhayman’s security? Fucking hell, just how did you manage that, baby?”

  “Hell, even I’m impressed,” Rhone drawled in Max’s ear.

  “Me too,” Bruce seconded.

  “It didn’t come without pain. It cost me a few broken bones in the beginning,” she muttered. “Now behave, Maximilian. These wolves will tear you apart at the smallest provocation.”

  “No goodbye kiss, baby?”

  Joanne didn’t afford him a response other than an annoyed glare.

  “Not even one little pucker, luvduv?” he called after her. The low warning growl next to him drew his gaze from her taut body. “Down, boy. I’ve got no gripe with you. In fact, when I get out of here, I’m taking the three of you with me.”

  “Not in my fucking chopper, you’re not,” Rhone growled.

  Max kept his eyes on the wolves in case someone was watching and noticed his lips moving.

  “How many bodies can the bird take, mate?” Max asked without moving his lips much. He had no idea how many eyes were on him.

  “Eight at the most,” Rhone responded. “What’s your opinion, Max? I don’t want this op to turn into a soup sandwich.”